[b]Shoreditch, London[/b]

There was something wrong. Fred Lambert had known that much when he’d set his head down to sleep last night. Sebastian Hedland had been sent to Liverpool yesterday morning to investigate the co-operative being set up at Daley’s Sugar Refinery and had not returned. None of his colleagues at the [i]New Jerusalem[/i] had heard from him since. He was due to return that evening. Lambert kidded himself that perhaps Hedland had checked into a hotel for a while before a few calls around Liverpool had shot that theory down. Lambert’s wife had convinced him that he was worrying over nothing and had lured him to bed. Yet even as he’d lain there he’d known something was wrong. When he arrived at the offices of the [i]New Jerusalem[/i] this morning his fears had been confirmed.

On the front cover of the [i]Times[/i] was a picture of Richard Short. The headline above the picture read “[i]REPUBLICAN PLOTTERS UNCOVERED[/i]” and the short paragraph detailed the crimes Short and his colleagues were planning. Chief amongst them was conspiracy to commit regicide – an offence punishable by death. Short was the manager of the refinery that Hedland had been sent to. Lambert thumbed through the paper in search of Seb’s name and breathed a sigh of relief upon finding it absent from its pages. He’d spend the next two hours calling around hospitals in Liverpool and the surrounding area to see if anyone that fitted Seb’s description had been admitted. There was nothing.

At lunchtime Lambert left the office and headed to Shoreditch to visit Seb’s flat. He hoped he might find some clue as to his protégé’s whereabouts there. Hedland had given him a spare key six months ago upon moving in that Lambert had never used before. He hoped that Hedland would understand his rooting around inside his flat whilst he was away given the circumstances. In fact, Lambert wouldn’t mind if he didn’t understand so long as he was able to find out where he was. Hedland’s parents were close friends and he’d become a surrogate son to him of sorts. They’d never forgive him if something had happened to Seb and Lambert wasn’t convinced he’d ever be able to forgive himself.

It was a weight off his shoulders when he saw him curled up in a ball on the sofa sleeping. Lambert let him for a few moments as he reached down for the postcard on the floor beside him. His chubby face balled up with bemusement as he eyed it front to back and set it down on the table next to the sofa. With one hand he shook Seb awake and after a few seconds the young journalist rolled over to face Lambert. His face was covered with cuts and bruises, his hands were swollen and covered in welts, but he was alive. The initial shock of Lambert’s presence faded and Hedland seemed relieved that Fred was there.

He moved to sit up but groaned in pain and Lambert suggested he remained where he was. Over the next twenty-five minutes Seb explained what had happened in Liverpool, about the raid at the refinery, and what the ginger-haired man had asked of him and done to him. Lambert had found that particularly hard to listen to. He’d seen the pain in Seb’s eyes as he’d described it. It explained why he’d not been able to get a hold of him, why he’d not been checked into any hospital, and most of all how he’d come to be in the state he was in. Once he’d finished speaking the chubby Political Editor reached into his bag and pulled out a few newspapers he’d bagged from the morning. Each bore an account of what had happened at Daley’s Sugar Refinery with the picture of Richard Short on the front.

“I wasn’t sure whether to show you these or not,” Lambert muttered as he handed the newspapers to Hedland. “I figured you’d find out one way or another so I might as well.”

Hedland shook his head in disbelief as he sorted through them. “What? This is nonsense… none of this is true. I asked Short whether their co-operative was a form of socialism and he… he called me a twat, for God’s sake. There’s no way Short was a socialist. Absolutely no way.”

“Is there some way he could have lied to you? Could have hidden it?”

Seb shot Lambert a glare. “I know what I saw there, Fred, and it [i]wasn’t[/i] some socialist conspiracy to assassinate the King. They were just decent people trying to make a living.”

It made the Political Editor sick to his stomach. British intelligence had to have been behind the raid in Liverpool and that meant whoever had tortured Seb had been too. Someone in the employ of the British government had beaten and violated an innocent man all because he happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. Hedland was a journalist too. If they’d so willingly snatch him up like they had and put him through those things there was [i]nothing[/i] they wouldn’t do. They were out of control. Even if Short had been behind some kind of plot it wouldn’t excuse what they’d done to Hedland. The more Lambert thought about it the more queasy he felt.

Seb stared at short’s face on the front of the Times. “What will happen to Ricky?”

“If he’s lucky he’ll hang,” Lambert said with a sigh. “If he’s not so lucky he’ll spend the rest of his life in a prison cell. I imagine the Prime Minister will push for the first option given everything that's happened of late.”

Even through the bruises Fred could see Seb’s face growing angrier by the second. “We need t-”

“Stop. Don’t even say it, Sebastian, because it’s not going to happen. Whoever did this knows where you live. They brought you here to show you that. I hate to say it but there’s nothing we can do for Mr. Short. No one will believe a word of this if we publish it and worst of all they’ll come back for you and finish what they started. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“I want the people that did this to pay,” Hedland said as tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t care if they kill me.”

Lambert placed one of his chubby hands on the journalist’s shoulder with a sigh. “Well I do, Sebastian.”

Hedland sobbed quietly and Lambert bent down to hug him close. He could feel the young man’s tears seeping through his shirt and onto his chest. It turned Lambert’s stomach to know what they’d done to Seb and he doubted the guilt he felt at having sent him there would never leave him. He should have let him go to Brixton. He would have been safe there. He’d have wasted a day being given the run around by some Met press officer and been back within a few hours with nothing to show for it. Instead this had happened and Lambert had no idea how to deal with it. He hugged Seb tightly as his eyes met with the postcard on the table.

“Try to get some more sleep,” Lambert muttered in a soothing voice. “I’ll stop by again this evening.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham[/b]

Conrad Murray stifled a yawn mid-sentence as he quizzed his students. His desk was on a raised platform at the front of the class that overlooked the eighteen desks he’d arranged in three rows beneath him. At each desk sat two students. Conrad had put together a strict seating plan and had disregarded his student’s attempts to plead with him to let them sit with their friends. Durham had told him he was wasting his time but Murray thought it was better to make the children integrate and work with people outside of their own social circles. So far it seemed to be working. Even though he was tired, having spent the night on the sofa in lieu of his argument with Honor, his students seemed receptive and willing to learn this afternoon. He was more than thankful for that.

Conrad pointed to a boy towards the back of the room. “Daniel, what can you tell me about the Troubles?”

Daniel was born to Pakistani parents that had moved to Birmingham decades ago as part of the guest worker program. There was a large contingent of British-Pakistanis in Birmingham due to the old factories that had been there before the Troubles. They kept to themselves for the most part. Daniel himself was an outgoing boy whose grades were good but not great. In any other town Daniel might go to university and get a degree. In Chelmsley Wood he’d be lucky to graduate. Conrad was determined to help him beat those odds.

After several seconds Daniel looked up at Conrad with a speculative smirk. “They killed the King… and Queen?”

‘Who killed them?”

Conrad could see from Daniel’s face he had no idea. The boy looked around the class room at the other students as if searching for an answer and a whisper sounded from beside him. Conrad pretended not to hear it as Daniel’s face suddenly became awash with confidence.

“Anarchists.”

“I want more than that,” Murray said as he ran a hand through his brown-red beard. “Give me some detail.”

Another hand shot up at the back. A boy by the name of Jason waved his hand around enthusiastically to catch Conrad’s attention. He lived on an estate not far from the school. His mother was black and father was white. He was one of Conrad’s worst students but never seemed short on enthusiasm. School was a respite for him from what waited for him out there.

Jason started speaking the second the young history teacher glanced in his direction. “After the Great War people didn’t really have much money and there was a lot of unemployment. People were really unhappy and thought it was unfair that the rich had nice things when most people didn’t even have jobs. So they killed the Royal Family to send a message.”

“That’s right,” Conrad said with a proud smile. "Though I’m not sure unhappy is the right word. It wasn’t unhappiness that started the Troubles, though people certainly [i]were[/i] unhappy, it was rage. Society broke down and the state left people behind to fend for themselves. With no support people starved, committed acts of violence we would consider barbaric, and there are a few scholars that assert that some people resorted to cannibalism. Though there’s not much surviving evidence of that. Unhappiness can’t drive a person to that. Rage? Rage can make people do [i]terrible[/i] things.”

From across the room Daniel’s voice sounded. “It doesn’t seem right. What those people did. The King and Queen didn’t [i]choose[/i] to be born the King and Queen. It’s not like they had any choice. To kill them just because of that… It’s wrong.”

The teacher smiled wistfully at the comment. He’d never thought of it like that. He’d never imagined what the Royal Family must have felt that day when the masses were banging on the doors. The conditions of their birth were no more of their choosing than the starving poor that were braying for their blood. 

“Yes, it [i]is[/i] wrong.”

The bell sounded and the classroom burst into life. The students forced books into book bags, fastened their coats, and began to break towards the exit with lightning speed. Murray didn’t bother try to stop them and instead stood up from his seat and began to wipe the board behind his desk clean.

As they filtered past them he called out to them. “Remember, you have a mock exam tomorrow morning so make sure you’re prepared.”

One by one his students disappeared through the door to Conrad’s classroom and he watched as Jason disappeared through the door last. Unlike the rest of them there was no joy on his face. There would be no hot meals or open arms waiting for him at home. He sighed and set the board eraser down on his desk. The argument he’d had with Honor was still weighing heavily on his mind. Posturing. Maybe it had been too strong, Conrad thought, maybe he should have chosen his words more carefully than he had done. It was academic. The damage had been done. Like Jason, Conrad would find no open arms waiting for him when he got home tonight. Just another night on the sofa.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Morden, London[/b]

Raucous laughter filled the Morden Tavern. In an alcove sat Ray Newman, Paul Winters, and the four other members of their darts team. Ray had just finished telling the men about the wild night out he’d been on two days ago. Newman had [i]actually[/i] spent his night indoors on his own but he daren’t tell them that. They were all married with children, like Newman had been once, and living vicariously through Ray seemed to brighten their moods somewhat. In truth he wondered sometimes whether his stories served to brighten his own mood more. He’d done little of worth with his time since attending the National Front meeting in Mitcham. The meeting had brightened his spirits some. Edgar Francis understood what was really going on out there on Britain’s streets. He’d told the guys about the meeting and they’d seemed disinterested so he’d left it at that. They left their homes every other Thursday to play darts, get drunk, and ogle at women half their age. Newman couldn’t blame them for not wanting to talk politics. 

Ray glanced round at the empty pint glasses around the table and then drank what remained of his own drink. It was his round. A lifetime of drinking had made him a dab had at carrying three pints in two hands, sometimes even four, but five was too much for even the most seasoned veteran. 

He gestured towards Winters to the bar as he stood up from his seat. “You want to give me a hand, Paul?”

Winters nodded and stood up from his seat to accompany Ray to the bar. Even when he wasn’t working it was clear from the way Winters dressed that he was moneyed. The other men wore boot cut jeans, checkered shirts, and trainers that would make their children wear but Winters was something else. He wore a crisp baby blue polo shirt, smart blue trousers, shiny black brogues, and a wristwatch that looked expensive. Combined with his well-groomed white beard Winters looked out of place in the working man’s pub. Especially stood next to Newman.

Ray gave Paul a knowing look as they waited to be served. “How are things going?”

“The bosses are pouring [i]everything[/i] into Oldfield’s murder but they’ve got nothing. The coloureds aren’t giving us a goddamn thing and I don’t expect that to change anytime soon. Ballistics gave us nothing on the bullets. It’s not looking good, Ray.”

Newman shook his head and muttered an obscenity under his breath. “What about the other thing? The coloured that got killed in Brixton?”

“It’s funny you mention that actually,” Winters said with a shit-eating grin. “Not longer after our little chat the world came down from upstairs to stonewall the thing. Even the bosses want me to fudge it.”

“What?” Newman frowned. “Are you being serious?”

Paul nodded. “It came as a shock to me too but I’m not about to question it. If the bosses want this thing fudged, I’ll fudge the shit out of it. I get paid at the end of the month either way.”

That [i]was[/i] unusual. Giving the timing of the murder Newman figured they’d throw everything they had at it to get it to go away. It was why he’d lent on Winters to begin with. He hadn’t wanted resources that could have been spent finding Oldfield’s killer wasted on some coloured. If the bosses were sitting on it there had to be more going on that met the eye. Either that or [i]someone[/i] up the chain was under a lot of pressure. It had to come from above Walsh. Walsh was many things but he’d never explicitly tell a detective to squash a case unless word had come from upstairs. Even then he wouldn’t like it.

Newman ordered five ales and waited until the bartender was out of earshot before he responded. “Maybe they’ve finally come to their senses.”

Across the pub the sound of a pint glass crashing to the ground was met with derisive laughter from all and Newman tittered. The bartender set each pint down in front of Newman and Winters one by one and Ray handed him a note and a handful of change. He made a pyramid out of the pint glasses and placed his hands around it and lifted them. Winters grabbed the other two.

“Are you coming to this thing for Oldfield?” Winters asked as they ambled back towards their seats. “The memorial service?”

Newman had almost forgotten. He nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’ll be there, I owe his parents that much.”

It was to be held in Oldfield’s family home in Wallington. James had no girlfriend, no wife, and no children to survive him but his parents were still young. Newman couldn’t imagine the pain they felt at having to bury their only child. He’d been anxious when he heard about the private memorial they were holding if only because he feared they might ask him about that night. He didn’t want to have to tell them about what had happened or the emptiness he’d seen in their son’s eyes as he bled out. No one [i]should[/i] ever have to hear that. Even now having been reminded of it for only half a second he couldn’t help but feel like whatever momentum the laughter and alcohol had given him had been stolen away. 

Winters and Newman turned the corner to their seats where the other members of their darts team were waiting for them. They cheered as they appeared with the alcohol and Newman set the three pints he’d been carrying down on the table in front of them. Winters set his two down and shuffled back to his seat. Newman stayed standing, lifted his pint, and gestured to the other men to do the same.

“To getting wankered.”

The other men all clinked their glasses together with broad smiles. “To getting wankered.”

Ray titled his head back, opened his throat, and poured his pint of ale down his stomach in a few seconds. The other men cheered again in support and Newman slammed his empty pint back down on the table with a loud belch.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Embankment, London[/b]

Samuel Hobbs sat alone at a bar and ran his fingers along the edge of a glass of scotch. It was his fourth. At least he thought it was. He’d stopped counting. The bar he was sat in was a favourite of the Downing Street staffers and he’d sometime come here after work with Dominic Hewitt and some of the others after work. Today Hobbs was on his own. Hewitt was gone. He’d been dragged out of Downing Street yesterday for a misstep Hobbs had committed in his name. The first full day without Hewitt had taken its toll on Fraser Campbell’s Director of Communications. It wasn’t that he’d missed Hewitt so much as he’d spent the entire day waiting for the penny to drop and the Prime Minister to find him out. Hobbs imagined he’d carry that feeling around with him for a long time. Perhaps even long after Errol Clarke’s case file was closed. He sneered at the thought and knocked back what remained of his scotch. He spluttered a little as it crept down his throat. Hobbs [i]hated[/i] scotch. Even the smell of it made him sick. It was why he was drinking it.

He looked up at the mirrored surface on the wall of the bar opposite him at the rail thin, pallid ghoul that sat in his grey suit. The bags under his eyes had deepened and there were deep blue veins along his eyelids. Hobbs felt like he’d aged a decade in the past week. God knows how much worse he’d look now he’d spend the next six months looking over his shoulder every morning. He ran one of his pale hands over his mouth and chin and let out a sigh. The bartender at the other end of the bar made eye contact with him and reached for a bottle of scotch.

He unscrewed it slowly as he looked towards Hobbs. “Another scotch?”

“Sure,” Hobbs said with an empty smile. “Why not?”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
[b]Whitehall, London[/b]

Joyce Campbell sat with her long legs wrapped around her husband’s waist. Fraser Campbell was more stressed than she’d ever seen him. The events of the past week or so had gotten to him. South Africa, the Voluntary Repatriation Bill, Oldfield’s murder, and now this mess with Thomas Moore and Hewitt had put him in a particularly bad mood. She’d known the second he’d appeared in the doorway to their Downing Street apartment that he needed her comfort that evening. She gave it to him freely and he devoured it and her more greedily than he had done in months. Now they sat entwined on their large bed. She could feel her husband’s heart beating loudly in his chest as he recounted for what seemed like the fifth time the conversation he’d had with Markham-Powell. Fraser seemed certain that Moore was on maneuvers and it wouldn’t be long before he tried to oust him. Joyce kissed her husband’s back gently as her husband spoke of the Home Secretary’s weekly luncheons with King William.

She groaned with displease at the thought of it. “Tom always was a toady at the best of times.”

“Yes, well if what Markham-Powell says is true it won’t be long before he’ll be toadying up to King William from Downing Street. He’s going to make his move, Joyce. He’s been [i]everywhere[/i] on the Oldfield murder and now he’s leaking things to the Palace to get them onboard. Once they are convinced there’ll be nothing to stop him.”

Joyce sighed. It was difficult enough talking to her husband about Thomas Moore at the best of times. Their romance still rankled Fraser even though he tried his best to disguise it. He was a sensitive man, though he tried to disguise that too, especially given the attention his wife Joyce [i]still[/i] received regarding her appearance and the not-so mocking Fraser was subjected to about his. She loved him far more than she had ever loved Thomas Moore. A few wild months in Oxford were as to nothing compared to the years she’d spent with her husband. Yet still Fraser needed reassuring. She knew that Hobbs would have been as well equipped to advise Fraser on this but Joyce understood her husband needed to hear the words from her mouth.

They were cold, ruthless even, and Joyce could see the satisfaction upon her husband’s face upon hearing them. “You need to deal with him.”

“And how do you suggest I do that? If Moore goes I lose half my cabinet.”

“You don’t need to sack him,” Joyce said as she planted another gentle kiss on her husband’s back. “You just need to wound him. You need to get something over him so that when he makes his move you’ll be prepared. He’s too popular with the public and the Palace for us to place this one straight. We need some dirt on him.”

Fraser shook his head. “Trust me, I’ve had Hobbs rooting around in Moore’s past for the past two years. There’s nothing there. He might be a prat but the man is squeaky clean.”

Joyce blew a lock of golden blonde hair from her face as she considered how to declaw the Home Secretary in time. Moore had married a few years out of Oxford to a Parisian woman he’d met whilst travelling. She was a rare beauty even by Moore’s standards. [i]Daphne[/i]. She had passed away a few years ago leaving Moore to care for their daughter on his own. He had done a good job of it. Their daughter was studying at Oxford and would likely follow in her father’s footsteps into government. Joyce wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up the first female Prime Minister some day. Outside of his daughter Moore had little to make him vulnerable. He was a staunch monarchist, tough on crime, and did little in his spare time but read, visit fancy restaurants, and frequent the capital’s theatres. He really [i]was[/i] squeaky clean.

And then it struck Joyce. Her piercing blue eyes eyed the picture of her two children on the table beside them as she thought the idea through. For the first time in years she found herself worried to put voice to an idea in front of her husband. She had found the courage to coach Fraser from an unambitious, unspectacular student that dreamt of becoming a musician into Prime Minister and had imparted in him her republicanism along the way but [i]this[/i] might have been too much. She gritted her teeth as she recounted they promise they had made all those years ago. Whatever it takes.

Finally she found her voice as she planted a tentative kiss on her husband’s back. “There is one way we could hurt him.”

Fraser glanced over his shoulder towards his wife with an inquisitive look. “How?”

“There’s only one thing that Tom wants more than to be Prime Minister.”

Her husband stared at her through his thick-lensed glasses without a hint of recognition. She had hoped she wouldn’t have to say the words, that her husband might deduce her plan from the tone she was speaking in, but it was clear from his chubby face she would have to spell it out for him. Joyce cleared her throat nervously and pushed back another lock of her hair from her eyes. She stared her husband in the face and muttered the word that she knew he wanted to hear least.

“Me.”